


As One

by musicmillennia



Series: The Unusuals [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Coffee Coffee Coffee, Comparisons to Genderfluidity, D'Artagnan is so done, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Humor, Kissing, M/M, Milady's Cool You Guys, Multi, Platonic Soulmates, Romantic Soulmates, Soul Bond, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, They're Still a Herd of Cats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-18 09:35:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3564806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicmillennia/pseuds/musicmillennia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which D'Artagnan does not get paid enough for his job ("We don't pay you." "Exactly!") and he has no idea how to talk with two mouths.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As One

**Author's Note:**

> I make comparisons to genderfluidity to illustrate soul bonds; if I am incorrect about anything, please inform me so I can fix it.
> 
> Also, in the show I believe that Milady is a redeemable character and she's depicted as being on the "good side" here. Apologies if that upsets you.

It's a Saturday, but D'Artagnan's up at five in the morning and driving to Aramis and Porthos' house because he is an amazing person who doesn't get paid enough for this.

When he'd signed up as a lab assistant under Dr. du Vallon to earn some credits at university, this hadn't been in the job description: getting up every day and going to the man's house to wake him up and separate him from his unfairly attractive husband so he can get to work. Before D'Artagnan had come along, goodness knows what the scientist had done. Probably spent at least an extra hour in bed having a grand old time with his soulmate and--

D'Artagnan sighs, flexing his fingers on the wheel. His own Soul Mark rests mockingly across his knuckles, an outline of a roaring flame. It's uncolored, meaning he hasn't found his own mate. Porthos--as he's insisted on being called--had shown him his own Mark, located on his left shoulder blade. It's a Celtic cross, black as ink, filled in with watercolors of gold, marble white, and crystal lavender, like a work of stained glass in Notre Dame. Beautiful.

But not something he wants to think about at the ass-crack of dawn. D'Artagnan drinks his coffee, driving with his other hand. Five minutes later see him pulling into a sleepy suburb just outside Paris. At the end of the development is a two-story manor, its architecture speaking of early sixteen hundreds. Apparently it used to be the only house in a large estate before this little _banlieue_  was built. The stone is weather-worn, but the garden out front is well-tended and loved. (Aramis is an artist with herbs and flowers.)

D'Artagnan pulls into the drive, his father's car clunking along. Not for the first time he wishes he could get rid of it, but the metro doesn't travel to this little corner of France, and fuck it if he had to walk all the way here at shitfaced o'clock.

He uses the spare key on the door, glowering over the fact that most lab assistants don't have the key to their boss' house, let alone access to said boss' bedroom. He really should've gone with Constance in shadowing an elementary school teacher. It's not nearly as exciting, but her soulmate Anne's the one behind the desk, and she's nice.

Also, he thinks with a quiet groan as he hears rustling and kissing noises all the way from the bottom of the stairs, Constance and Anne are platonic soulmates. Not...this.

"Porthos?" he calls, slowly climbing the staircase towards the master bedroom, "Aramis?"

The kissing noises thankfully stop before he reaches the door. Better still, both men are clothed--Porthos in a grey t-shirt and boxers, Aramis in his fancy cotton pajamas.

They blink owlishly at him.

D'Artagnan sighs, "Which is it? Porthos? Aramis? Both?"

"Aramis," they respond in sync. Great.

The best comparison D'Artagnan can figure for soul bonds is being genderfluid. Using Porthos and Aramis as an example, some days are "Aramis days," or "Porthos days," or "Both". Soulmates are so entwined with each other most of the time that they can't differentiate themselves to the point that they answer to their other half's name. Sometimes they identify as both Porthos  _and_ Aramis, which is fun for everyone involved.

"Alright," D'Artagnan chugs the rest of his coffee before yanking the bedsheets off of them. He answers to their whines with, "Aramis, come on. You've got to meditate."

It's the most effective way to separate soulmates enough in their heads so they can safely recognize themselves. For a pair as adept at it as these two, it usually doesn't take longer than twenty minutes. Getting them to do it in the first place however is where it gets tricky.

"Leave me alone," Porthos--now Aramis 2, as D'Artagnan calls him on these mornings--"It's too early!"

"The other part of you can go back to sleep once you're sorted."

"What other part?" Aramis 1 moans into his pillow. Aramis 2 says, "I'm the only one here!"

D'Artagnan does not get paid enough for this shit. "Do you want me to blast an airhorn? Because I will," he threatens. "Now get up and separate yourself!"

His threat proves fruitful as Aramis forces themselves out of bed with minimal fuss, tumbling onto the floor at the foot of their bed and grabbing each other's hands.

"I'll be downstairs. Come down when you're ready."

They don't hear him. D'Artagnan leaves them to it.

* * *

 Montecris Labs are in Paris, squished between two business buildings but easily the better looking of the three. Clean windows, smooth exterior, it's everything someone would imagine a lab to look like. Inside is sleek and modern, an antithesis to Porthos and Aramis' house. D'Artagnan likes the professional atmosphere when his brain is still jumbled in early morning stupor.

Athos and Milady meet them at the rotating door. The former looks like he's going to combust unless he takes another sip of his coffee while the latter chugs hers like she's a crack addict getting her fix. She calls herself Milady to prevent being confused with Anne. D'Artagnan also suspects that she's got a superiority complex, but he doesn't mention it because Milady can be terrifying, and when she's terrifying, Athos is terrifying, and when Athos is terrifying, Porthos is terrifying, which makes Aramis terrifying--basically you piss any of them off at your own risk. D'Artagnan would rather keep his head, thank you.

"Morning," Milady says briskly, "How is our favorite assistant?"

"Wanting a pay rise," D'Artagnan mutters. How she hears him, he doesn't know, but she smirks at him.

"We want more coffee," Athos grumbles. It's a Both Day for them then, which is an acceptable condition in which to go to work besides being separated. It's a day when D'Artagnan can call him Anne/Milady without repercussions, which, yes, he takes full advantage. It's a bright spot in his morning, which is always nice to have when dealing with a herd of cats.

The four of them--technically three, since Milady and Athos' souls and brains are still bunched together--step into the elevator. Porthos pushes the button for the lower levels, where the labs are.

"So," D'Artagnan looks at the couple to his right. They're standing shoulder to shoulder, drinking their coffee in disturbingly perfect unison. "What brings both halves here this time?"

"We still need help on that experiment with the athletes," Milady replies, even though Athos is the one who's conducting said experiment. "The fairer half of us works wonders with distracting them into complacency."

Athos seamlessly adds, "It also helps us to have all of our hands working together instead of those filthy inexperienced ones." he looks at D'Artagnan, "No offense."

D'Artagnan doesn't see a single hint of apology in his face but he shrugs and says, "None taken," anyway.

Porthos is on his phone, no doubt sending one last text to Aramis before they get too far underground for phone signals. D'Artagnan sees the affection on his face, watches Athos wipe the corner of his own lip despite Milady having a bit of foam at that spot instead, and feels a familiar ache of loneliness.

One day, he keeps telling himself, has been telling himself since he was a kid. One day.

* * *

 

Porthos' lab has enough science-y toys to make a geek cream himself upon entering. Thankfully, D'Artagnan is more interested in fencing and riding than complex machinery, so he passes through the threshold with dry pants and nonchalance.

“Alright, pup,” Porthos says, reaching for his lab coat, “Today we’re—Captain!”

Dr. Tréville, called Captain instead of Boss or something else reasonable—weeks after getting this job, D’Artagnan still doesn’t know why—is standing in the middle of the lab looking as menacing as ever with his crossed arms and pristine white lab coat. Next to him is someone D’Artagnan doesn’t know, but looks to be about his age and vaguely familiar.

“Ah, Porthos,” Tréville greets, “D’Artagnan. Good morning. Don’t mind us, I’m just giving my godson here a tour of the place, let him see how my staff works.”

It’s no secret that Tréville has a godson, but now that D’Artagnan knows it’s this kid, he recognizes the face from Anne’s Facebook photos as Louis de Bourbon. Constance calls him a pompous child; Anne acts as his indulgent mother and best friend, saying he has a kind heart really, he just doesn’t know what to do with it most of the time. It’s one of the few things on which they have drastically different opinions, so honestly D’Artagnan has no idea what to make of him.

“Louis, this is Dr. du Vallon and his assistant, Charles D’Artagnan,” Tréville says, gesturing to them.

“Hello,” Louis says, but doesn’t offer his hand to shake. Is he shy, or just arrogant? The slightly petulant look says the latter. Not a good first impression.

“Well, so long as I’m not gettin’ a surprise inspection,” Porthos grins, “D’Artagnan, fetch me some paper.”

While Athos is working on a medicine that could cure heart conditions, Porthos is trying his hand at cloning. Calculations are a bitch though, taking at least a couple of hours each day so they don’t blow the place up trying to configure the machine Porthos constructed. D’Artagnan is ordered to explain this to Tréville and Louis while Porthos takes out a pencil from his pocket and starts scribbling.

“Have you actually managed to clone anything?” Louis asks eagerly, like a child in a toy store. When D’Artagnan hesitatingly reports of no successes, his face falls into a pout. “Oh.”

He is a literal five year old. D’Artagnan almost wants to laugh, until Louis brushes some of those ridiculous curls behind his ear and he realizes he is never going to laugh ever again, ever.

Milady’s Mark is on her neck, usually covered by a scarf because she’s private about it like Athos. This guy has no such qualms flaunting the uncolored flames settled just under his right ear. They’re the same as the ones blazing on D’Artagnan’s knuckles down to the curve.

He’s so surprised that he lets out a few choice words in Gascon that cause Tréville’s eyebrows to shoot up. Because of course the Captain would be from Gascony too, another funny little coincidence, like his godson just so _happening_ to be his old neighbor’s son’s soulmate.

“Is something wrong, D’Artagnan?” he asks.

D’Artagnan responds with an intelligent, “Uh.” All eyes are now trained on him. “It’s just,” he clears his throat, “that, um…”

Louis grimaces impatiently. “ _What_?” his sudden snappish tone sets D’Artagnan’s left hand into action. As soon as he makes the connection, Louis’ almost-sneer melts into pale shock.

Tréville rubs his chin, and D’Artagnan thinks the bastard may or may not be trying to hide a smile. “A good morning indeed,” he says, like it’s _funny_ that his manchild godson has found a puppy to play with.

Porthos doesn’t bother trying to hide it; he sees the Mark and starts laughing. He’s so getting an airhorn tomorrow.

* * *

 

So, good news: Louis wants to be a platonic pair like Constance and Anne. Also, he is rich as fuck from his inheritance money.

They had been excused from their shadowing duties as soon as Porthos wiped his eyes and remembered how to breathe. Tréville’d suggested Louis’ place as a suitable spot for forming the bond, since it was closer and apparently brand-spanking new and expensive.

It is. It really fucking is, because you know where D’Artagnan’s apparent soulmate lives? _In a damn penthouse_.

He feels severely underdressed in his jeans and t-shirt as Louis gives him a tour that starts with a big ass kitchen and front room and ends with a beautiful balcony overlooking all of Paris. The place has plush couches, huge flat screen TVs, a pool table—basically everything he’s ever had a money boner over and he can’t believe this is happening to him right now.

“So,” Louis interrupts his internal drooling by standing awkwardly against the balcony railing. Below them, Paris buzzes with life, completely ignorant of the imminent life-changing event taking place. “Where are we doing this?”

D’Artagnan scratches behind his ear. “Wherever you wan—”

“Good, because I was thinking the couch in the living room. The bedroom is far too personal at this point, don’t you think?”

His Highness leads the way, leaving his soulmate blinking and wondering how on Earth he’s supposed to be his other half.

They sit on the couch, the leather fitting around D’Artagnan’s butt in the most heavenly way. Louis brushes his hair back again so the flames are visible.

“Go on then,” he commands. Constance had been so right.

D’Artagnan curls his hand and touches the spot, flame to flame.

It’s like a nuclear blast knocking him into the softest pillows surrounded by vicious puppies that shove him into acid so his body melts and reforms. Sort of. D’Artagnan’s mind is way too blown to come up with a more apt description beyond that, if it even is D’Artagnan who’s thinking it—it might be the other part of him, the newly discovered one, burning a hole into his side so it can attach itself comfortably and with minimal fuss.

He/they can’t open his/their eyes until it’s the blinding echoes of his/their new bond recede enough to focus on a physical plane.

The new part of him/them stares at its other in astonishment.

“Hello.” he’s—definitely he, both halves are together in two bodies, but definitely as one—not sure who says it, or maybe if it’s both of his mouths working. It’d felt like both…weird having two mouths now. He’ll have to get used to that.

His phone vibrates, and there’s a brief confusion because all four of his hands reach to grab it, and he’s not sure which hand belongs with which of his bodies so he has to resort to speaker phone.

“Hello?”

 _“D’Artagnan?”_ Constance, it’s Constance. _“Is someone with you?”_

He stares at his other set of eyes. Part of him watches him watching the other half, and it’s downright confusing but _not_ at the same time.

“I don’t…” both mouths are speaking. Should he try and stop that? “I don’t think so?”

Because it doesn’t feel as if there are two people here. It’s just him—a more complete him, granted, but only him, sitting on a couch.

 _“What does that mean?”_ then she gasps, _“Did you find your soulmate?!”_

That he can answer with a definite, “Yes.”

 _“D’Artagnan!”_ she squeals, even though he has no idea which part of him is D’Artagnan anymore, _“That’s amazing! When did this happen?”_

He has no idea how much time has passed since he was completed, but the sun’s still low in the east so he says, “I think a few minutes ago.”

Constance hisses out a breath. _“Oh, I’m so sorry. I’ll talk to you later then, let yourself get adjusted. I look forward to meeting them!”_ and she hangs up, which was nice of her, because he really needs to figure this out.

That’s where the bad news comes in: he has no idea how to even stand up anymore, let alone sort out how his extra limbs are supposed to work. He vaguely recalls his godfather lecturing him about meditation, but it’d been so _boring_ at the time that he’d tuned the man out. His friend and boss Porthos meditates with Aramis to separate themselves, but how does he even start going about that?

“We should call Porthos,” he tells himself, “he’ll know what to do.”

“But wait,” he argues, “Porthos is at work. Aramis is still at home, probably asleep.”

“Really? How lazy of him, especially after all the trouble we took to get his partner up.”

One of his hands is hitting his contacts, selecting Aramis.

“FaceTime would be best,” he decides.

A few moments later, a rumpled yet somehow still drop-dead gorgeous Aramis is glaring at the screen.

“D’Artagnan?” he grumbles, “What on Earth are you calling me like this for? And who’s that?”

“How do you meditate?” he asks.

Aramis is suddenly wide awake. “Wait a moment. Is that Tréville’s _godson_? Did you bond with Tréville’s godson?”

He doesn’t understand the questions. He _is_ Tréville’s godson; isn’t he? Yes, he is, but…part of him…isn’t?

He’s getting a headache.

“Help,” he pleads, rubbing his temples on both bodies, subjecting Aramis to the hilarious sight of D’Artagnan massaging both his head and Louis’ while he wonders if he and Porthos ever look like this.

“You need to give yourselves at least an hour after bonding before you can think of separating,” Aramis tells him, “so just relax, watch telly or something. After that, join hands and close your eyes. The trick Porthos and I use is imagining a venn diagram; take the aspects that make you individuals and put them into their categories before pulling the circles apart. It sounds confusing, but trust me, it works.

“Now is that all, or do I have to get out of bed?”

“That’s all,” he says, then his other mouth adds, “What a lazy arse. But oh, we shouldn’t say that, should we?”

Aramis laughs and ends the call. This is going to be interesting.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading :)


End file.
